


The Widest Golf

by pagination



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Golf Stories - P. G. Wodehouse, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Golf (but not really), M/M, Natasha Romanov Is A Troll, Not Beta Read, Period-Typical Sexism, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Punching Phil will not endear you to Mrs. Rushland,” I warned.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Clint frowned. “Are you sure? Because I feel like he’d look better with a couple of black eyes.”</i>
</p><p>In which men are men, spies are spies, and the path of true love would run smoother if one of them was a 1.6 oz dimpled white ball, and the other one wasn't dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Widest Golf

**Author's Note:**

> The things I will do to avoid getting real work done. Have some unbetaed Wodehouse/Avengers crossover because why the hell not; I've been trying to kick-start my writing for months, and it isn't happening.
> 
> Warning: I do not play golf. This will be obvious to anyone who does play golf and reads this. Feel free to correct me on it. I did ask an actual golfer at the office to explain some things to me, but then he pulled out an actual club from I know not where and started to demonstrate using my iPhone as a ball; at some point one just has to _draw the line._

 

The young man came into the library, briefly letting in the noise of the revelries outside. He closed the door with unnecessary vigor. 

“Pah!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair.

The Oldest Member, enjoying a quiet pipe beside the fire, turned on this newcomer a benevolent eye. “Is the party not going well?” he inquired.

“Oh, the party’s alright,” returned the other, moodily. “The band’s alright, and the food’s alright, and the drinks’re alright. The problem isn’t that. It’s the three of them. They make me tired.”

“Who do?”

“Phil Ffoliet, Tuppy Prashand, and Wilberforce Happy. ‘Happy,’ forsooth! A more poorly named man I’ve never met. If they’re not glaring daggers at each other, they’re latching onto innocent bystanders to pour beastly poison about each other in their ears. Wilberforce had me by the collar for a good half-hour, and Phil for the other half. I only dodged Tuppy by pretending I had a beetle down my pants. I say, is it true that he once wore a dried squid onto the links because he dreamed a purple robin told him it would improve his swing?”

“An abject lie. He claimed it was a purple squirrel.”

“I knew Wilberforce wasn’t to be trusted,” said the young man with sullen satisfaction. 

“I’ve often escaped unwanted conversation by pretending to have gone deaf.”

“I can’t do that. I have a foursome with them tomorrow.”

“You could tell them that your dying grandmother has called you to her side.”

“I can’t do that either. I work with Phil at the office, and that’s the excuse I used to play my rounds today. The devil of it is,” the young man said in a burst of candor, “they give a fellow a damn good game. On the links, they’re perfect partners. It’s only off the links that I want to drop them down a well and call for the piranhas.”

“It’s curious that you should have mentioned them,” said the Sage. “When you came in, I was just thinking about another incident where a state of war existed between three men, and resolved itself through a shared love of golf.”

“Did the rest of the club slosh them over the head with their own 3-irons?”

“Hardly.”

“2-irons?”

“That’s hardly practical.”

The young man looked pensive. “You might have a point. Wrong sort of club entirely. It’s really a job for the woods.”

“If you will lend me your ear,” the Oldest Member said coldly, “I will tell you the whole.”

 

 

 

As a matter of fact (said the Oldest Member) the story I’m about to tell you also contains a man named Phil. I met him in America where, due to reasons that need not concern you, I was required to spend several months. It had been many years since I last visited the colonies, but I found that time had not changed the essential friendliness of its people; I became a member at a club on Long Island, and within a week, found myself the confidante to whom the younger members brought their troubles. It was from them that I first heard about the great rivalry between Reginald Direginald and Phil Polton.

It was clear from the moment I met him that Reggie disliked Phil. His very first words to me were, “Have you met Phil? I don’t say he’s a worm precisely, but there are flocks of early birds who show up every morning just to salivate over his head.”  Compare this with Phil, who introduced himself by saying, “I don’t suppose I could buy you a drink?” 

On the surface, Reggie’s dislike was unaccountable; he was wealthy, athletic, and had the dashing good looks of a cinema idol. His  animal vitality made your average Chicago gangster look like a wilting violet, and he regularly swanked around the club trailed by a pair of gloomy brick walls named, unaccountably, Vinnie and Hippo. By comparison, Phil was attractive without being remarkable, comfortable without being rich—a quiet, modest man who was always ready with a smile and a friendly word. True, he was a scratch golfer, but no one would mistake him for Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man. In force of personality and sheer presence, Phil was a teacup poodle to Reggie’s Great White Shark. And yet, there was no question which was the better man. 

If I speak more warmly about Phil than I did Reggie, there is reason for it. I was decidedly pro-Phil. The rest of the club was of like mind; particularly the feminine population, which invariably treated Phil with the pitying kindness normally reserved for  old rivals and husbands.

I had the explanation for their fondness from Miss Somerset, one of the livelier members of our little community.

“You only need to look at him to see that he’s hiding a secret sorrow,” she told me. “We’re positive he’s loved and lost, like the man in the poem.”

I was doubtful. My own friendship with Phil led me to believe him, like all the best golfers, a man dedicated to higher ideals and nobler callings than mere love. I thought she was indulging in a romantic flight of fancy. But there, I wronged her.

I don’t know how it is, but even taciturn, self-effacing men of a certain stamp come to confide in me. Perhaps it is my sympathetic nature. However it is, a few nights later, I had an after-dinner port with Phil. It took only a few hours of conversation for him to break down and confess his private grief. He was indeed in love, but his was a doomed passion, never meant to be. 

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t spread it around,” he said, ignorant of the wild speculation already rife in the clubhouse.

I promised to bear his secret to the grave. “But surely it’s too soon to give up on this love of yours. What is the obstacle between you and the lady?”

“I could never abuse my position, and hers was sensitive at the time. It wasn’t possible.”

“Does she know your feelings?”

“No. It would have made her uncomfortable. I couldn’t betray her trust in me as a friend.”

“But what if she feels the same?”

“How could she?” 

He gestured to himself. I couldn’t but concede the point. His face was pleasant, but unmemorable; his dress was neat, without being stylish. Jealous husbands who snorted like bulls when their wives went out without them were known to relax when they learned Phil Polton was their escort. In short, a man who inspired confidence, not passion. 

“I’ve seen you eagle on the seventh,” I said to encourage him, for I don’t like to see a man give up so easily. “Surely that must weigh into the balance.”

“She doesn’t like golf. Besides, she doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

I was shocked, I admit it. That this man, the club’s odds on favorite for the amateur championship, should throw his affections away on a woman who didn’t like golf! 

“She isn’t worthy of you. Put her out of your mind," I urged. "There must be other women around who would appreciate you for what you are. Miss Somerset, for instance. Her handicap is a mere fourteen.”

He shook his head. “There’s no point. I’m a one-love man. It’s been this way for years. I’m not repining. I just remind myself that I’m lucky to have my health.”

“Tell me about her, my dear boy,” I suggested. “Sometimes letting a wound breathe is the only thing that can heal it.”

“Miss Barton.” He lapsed into silence.

“Appearance?”

“Blond hair, green eyes, and arms.“

Insofar as paeans to an adored one went, I found this strangely flat. “The usual two, I assume?”

“It’s no use asking me to be poetic. I just can’t do it.” He sighed. “Nobody on earth can do the things she can with a bow.” 

He had been growing increasingly distracted as he spoke. Nearby, George Peckenby was saying good-bye to his fiancée. A well set-up young man, George—he rowed for Harvard—his fiancée was the type of young woman who’d make a dying man come back for another go at life. They were the kind of couple that shows up in magazine advertisements for cruises and teeth whiteners. Phil looked pained, and I understood at once what agonies the sight of such happiness must cause him.

I patted Phil on the shoulder. He smiled bravely at me. “Oh well,” he said. “There’s always golf.”

A man made of the right stuff! I could only honor him. 

 

 

 

For days after this conversation, I found myself thinking of Phil’s predicament. So often in our lives, we see unworthy men find their mates; men whose souls are so black as to find their pleasure in tennis, bowling—even, though I shudder to say it, croquet. And yet here was this fine figure of a man, a man of character, spirit, and integrity, whose future stretched barren before him, bound in misery and iron. 

Something must be done. But what? 

The answer came in the arrival of Natalie Rushland. 

I don’t know if you’ve ever had your ball roll to the edge of the cup and just stop there, as though it were reconsidering its life choices. And then just when you think that you’ll have to take another stroke, some earthworm three feet down wriggles out of his pajamas, and knocks your ball right in. No? Well, imagine your feelings if you had. Then imagine that feeling had glowing auburn hair, eyes as green as a freshly mown fairway, skin like fresh milk, and there you have Natalie Rushland. When I tell that the day that he met her, the Pro did his subsequent round in such a daze, he took six on the short fifteenth—and him a Scotsman!—you’ll understand that she was a pippin in every sense of the word.

Natalie arrived on a Monday. By Tuesday, half of the male population was madly in love with her, while the other half was queued up to get an introduction. I was fortunate in that we were already acquainted. We had met a few years previous in England, when we were both members at a club in Yorkshire. Sadly, we were forced to part ways when the clubhouse mysteriously burned down and our merry fellowship dispersed to find new links. I lost touch with her then, but when I greeted her, she remembered me immediately. We renewed our friendship with pleasure. She confided to me that she had married since we last met, and had recently been widowed. 

Like so many people, she had come to America to forget. 

“I forgot a lot more than just my husband though,” she admitted. “My handicap’s gone up to twenty-six.”

“When I knew you last, it was a respectable eleven.”

“I got it down to nine, but then I got distracted by marriage. I’m afraid my husband didn’t care for golf.”

I pressed her hand in sympathy. “The best cure for grief is a solid nine holes every morning before breakfast. There are stockbrokers on Wall Street who swear by it.”

“I shouldn’t have fallen out of practice.” She sighed. “Harold was a good man. I was quite fond of him, but he had his little flaws.”

It was then that I was struck by inspiration. “What you want is someone to help you improve your golf. A first-class golfer and teacher. Not the type who’ll get distracted and dash off on his own pet projects. A steady man with patience and tact, that’s what you need.”

“Doesn’t everyone? I don’t suppose you have an available model lying around.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, for I had just seen Phil step out onto the terrace.  “Allow me to introduce you.”

I made them acquainted with each other. It was easy to see that Phil was bowled over by Natalie. Most men were. He went one step further, turning pale and swaying like a flag in a high wind. 

The cause of this unusual frailty was easy to see. Phil held some position in the city that required frequent travel, and until recently he had been away on one of his trips. It was evident that during his absence, he had been in some sort of accident. His face looked like the party balloons after the air has been let out. While I never personally witnessed him put a step wrong, it was common knowledge that outside the links, he was one of the clumsiest men in America. He was forever falling into bushes or over sidewalks while on his travels. Just before I met him, Miss Somerset told me he’d been absent from the club for six months due to a collision with a seagull.

We helped him to a seat and sent a waiter for water. If we’d been alone, I would have congratulated him. Nothing is more likely to win a woman’s sympathy than a strong man’s moment of weakness. It certainly made quite an impression on Natalie. She hovered over him, positively cooing as she chafed his hands.

Like any modest man, he was embarrassed by the little mother treatment. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”

“It isn’t a bother at all, Mr. Poltroon.”

“Polton.”

“Mr. Poultry. You remind me of someone I once knew.”

“Polton. I’m told I have one of those faces.”

“He was a dear friend.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I miss him dreadfully. He was eaten alive by frogs; it was such an undignified way to go. I can still hear his pitiful little squeals for help as he paddled about in that pond, but what could a mere woman do? Frogs are so unbearably slimy.”

Phil choked on his water and began to cough. From the look on his face, a bystander would have supposed one of those same frogs was swimming down his throat. I knew precisely how he felt. In my way, I am a brave, some would even say _heroic_ man—the way I swung my mashie was once compared to Achilles hewing down the Trojans—but put me before a crying woman, and I am as the toad beneath the harrow. 

“Phil is a world traveler,” I volunteered on his behalf, since he was temporarily stricken dumb. “He’s often flying here and there on business.”

Natalie sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Does he? I do love travel. I love flying, especially. And you, Mr. Prick—"

"Polton."

"Mr. Pecker—"

"Call me Phil. Please."

"Do you prefer the plane? Or the bus?” 

He stared at her helplessly. 

I told him, “Mrs. Rushland is in town for several months. I told her you could help her with her game while she’s here.”

Phil untied his tongue long enough to ask, “Business? Or pleasure?”

“There’s so little pleasure for a widow," she sighed. "Of course, if I were able to improve my handicap, that would be something. The important thing for me is to not lose my temper. I get so destructive when I’m angry. I don’t suppose you’ve learned the meditation techniques of the East during your travels? I have a friend who swears by them.”

He gaped at her.

She said dreamily, “I love the Orient. I especially adore Tahiti.”

“It’s a magical place,” he mumbled.

As an expression of enthusiasm, it was somewhat lacking. However, Natalie seemed satisfied, and since she was recovered from her momentary grief I left them to get better acquainted, ignoring Phil’s panicked look as I did so. I confess, I was not sanguine. Phil was not his usual friendly self; his manner was not calculated to charm a young woman. I wondered if he might have fallen head-first down a well again, an activity he was apparently much addicted to. Still, I was hopeful that once they went a round together, his superior golf would make its impression.

Little though I knew it, this was not the only momentous first meeting I was to witness that day. As I was heading inside, I was suddenly arrested by the crash of breaking crockery. A strapping young man had just stepped out onto the terrace and dropped his plate. He was staring at Phil and Natalie, his face white. Yet another impressionable heart had fallen at her feet.

 

 

 

Over the next few days, the men of the club neglected their games to a disgraceful degree. In vain did wives call for husbands; mothers for sons; sisters for brothers. Where once these stalwart men might have been found on the links or in the bar, now they were to be found groveling at Natalie Rushland’s feet, rolling over to show their bellies. 

I was pleased to see that my advice to Phil had made its impression. Before too many days had passed, he hesitantly put his name down for the Rushland Stakes. While the initial punters were uncertain, lacking information on his form, in a very short while he was the odds on favorite to win. Most of his rivals grumbled good-naturedly. He was too popular to rouse that tyrant Jealousy that rules men’s minds. 

The exception to this lack of resentment was Clint Tierce. 

Clint was the young man who, if you recall, dropped his plate on seeing Natalie for the first time. He was a newcomer to our club, preceding her by a matter of a few days. Rumor was uncertain regarding his profession or hobbies, but the consensus of the female population was that his habit of wearing tight clothing improved the local scenery considerably. Unfortunately for the hopeful among them, the first impact of Natalie’s beauty did not fade over time. By the end of that first day, it was clear that he had entered the running, and became one of her most devoted admirers.

I say he was an admirer, but it seemed to me that he spent far more time in hating his chief rival than in impressing the object of his affections. He would spend hours standing in corners, brooding at Phil. If Phil tried to approach him, he would whisk himself away, only to pop up again an hour later to brood some more. He was a particularly effective at it; his knack of staring at a person for hours without blinking reminded me of a parrot I once knew. It had the most annihilating effect. If brooding had been a competitive sport, Clint could have brooded for America. 

The pressure of it wore on Phil. Basking though he was in Natalie’s affections, he was gradually taking on the stuffed expression of an unhappy moose.

Clint slunk into the library one afternoon when I was smoking my postprandial pipe, and took the chair next to me. Phil and Natalie were not present, having left to visit town; there being an absence of good targets to stare at, he brooded at the fire instead.

There was something about Clint that I found oddly endearing. I was surprised at myself. In every respect he should have been precisely the type to annoy—he was sullen, abrupt, jealous, and moody—but I detected in him a seed of greatness. While I had never seen him play, with arms like his, there was no end to what he couldn’t accomplish with a good iron.

“It’s a lovely day,” I said, opening up the lines of communication.

He frowned at me. He did not seem to agree.

“On a day like this, I’m reminded of the time I did bogey on the fourteenth hole at the Royal St George. Do you know the place? I had with me at the time a new—“

“You know Phil,” he interrupted.

I was nettled. No man likes to feel that his best stories are being wasted on the unworthy, but I answered with civility that I did, indeed, know Phil.

“How long have you known him?”

“Several months, now.”

“How is he?”

“As a golfer? Holds his head steady; nice, even swing, never presses, good follow-through—“

“I don’t care about his golf. Damn his golf. I _hate_ golf.”

For a moment the room reeled around me. I was dimly aware that Clint was still speaking, but I could hardly hear him through the roaring in my ears. At my age, these shocks are not to be taken lightly.

When I came to myself, it was to find him frowning at me. “Do you need a doctor? Whatever you do, don’t go into the light.” 

I drew myself up. “What do you mean, sir, coming in here and expressing such outrageous, I will even say _anarchistic_ views?”

He was surprised. “I’m not an anarchist. I’m an archer.”

“Those two are not mutually exclusive,” I said coldly.

“They are to me. I don’t have time to do both. Drink? I’ll buy.”

Under the mellowing influence of outstanding scotch, I allowed myself to be appeased. After all, much can be forgiven a man laboring under the torments of love. Despite his thoughtless words, I still felt that there was something worth salvaging in this man. “You were asking about Phil Polton.”

“Not about his golf. About his health.” 

“As hardy as any man’s can be, I expect. Why do you ask?” 

“I’m going to punch him sometime soon, and I want to make sure it won’t kill him when I do.”

I clicked my tongue in disapproval. “Violence is no way to solve your difficulties.”

“It’s always worked for me before.”

“Civilized people engage in conversation to settle their differences.”

“I’m American. We don’t do that.”

“Punching Phil will not endear you to Mrs. Rushland,” I warned.

Clint frowned. “Are you sure? Because I feel like he’d look better with a couple of black eyes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No black eyes?”

“No.”

“Not even one?”

“Not even one.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” he said thoughtfully. “You think I should break his nose?”

I began to wonder just what it was that I saw in this tiresome young man. 

“No,” I said firmly. “He has enough accidents already.”

“Accidents? Phil?”

It occurred to me that what Clint lacked was a reason to feel sympathy for his rival. Up to now, he had only seen Phil as a polished man of the town, unruffled under any provocation. Perhaps if he had a glimpse of the human Phil, he could see his way past his resentment to accept him in the spirit of friendly competition.

I immediately put this theory to the test by recounting to Clint some of the occasions which had resulted in Phil’s return to the club in a state of injury. Though I was obviously not present for any of the incidents in question, I had the facts from Phil. I flatter myself that I told them well. Perhaps I took liberties in speculating on Phil’s feelings on being attacked by beavers, or tripping over a chinchilla, or finding himself falling down a well for the seventh time. I’m told I have a storyteller’s gift of dramatic tension. I exercised it to its fullest in the interests of peace.

It was in the middle of the incident with the Norwegian ducks that Clint finally broke down. As I had thought, there was good stuff in that man. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. 

I watched him kindly. “It’s difficult to overcome prejudices, I know. But after all, what is a woman? Only a woman. But a man can be a brother, a comrade, a friend even though he is a rival, a—“

“Right,” he gasped. He flapped a hand at me, his face turned away to hide tears of manly compassion. “I’ll just go now. To think. About Phil. And ducks.”

He staggered away. 

I was hopeful that I would see some softening in Clint’s behavior towards Phil, but sadly, it wasn’t to be. He still brooded whenever he caught sight of him, and eluded Phil’s attempts at conversation with the same rude ease as before. At least my efforts had dissuaded him from resorting to violence. And they had resulted in at least one unexpected change, reported to me by Phil himself.

“I don’t suppose you know why Clint occasionally snickers when he looks at me?” he asked.

“I can’t imagine,” I said truthfully. 

 

 

 

Barring this minor tension, it must seem to you that the club was practically a paradise. You would be correct. With the exception of Clint’s unreasoning jealousy and the irritation of wives whose husbands were wrapping themselves in knots around Natalie’s little finger, it was a veritable Garden of Eden.

Sadly, in these Garden of Eden stories, the stage directions inevitably reintroduce the snake.

We had been blessed with Reggie’s absence for several days, but the day after my conversation with Clint, he returned from abroad. He’d only been back for an hour when I saw him, but it took only one glance to see that trouble was brewing. I spotted him in the club’s little restaurant, where he was treating Natalie to tea and sandwiches. 

Natalie, I am sorry to say, appeared to be enjoying Reggie’s company a great deal. Clint, who was brooding in the corner, seemed to be torn over who he despised more, Phil or Reggie.

I had a few words with Reggie that evening after dinner.

“I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Natalie Rushland,” I said. “She’s a great friend of Phil’s.”

“I heard something like that,” Reggie said casually. “I didn’t notice any special friendship. Then again, she was so interested in my story about the deal I did last week, I expect she forgot he was around.”

“He’s been helping her with her game.”

“Has he? Poor girl.”

“Her handicap has dropped by ten since they started playing together.”

“It’s easy to keep your eye on the ball when the alternative is to look at Phil. I should pop in on their next round together. Give her a few tips. She’d appreciate that.”

“Phil is scratch.”

“My handicap’s six. But she’ll learn better when she’s interested in what her teacher is saying, don’t you think?”

I said stiffly, “Natalie finds Phil very interesting.”

“Well, sure, because what are her alternatives? A bunch of bores, going on about holes they played a century ago? No offense.”

I had to admit that there was much in what he said. There were many worthy men among our members, but I did find some of them beyond tedious. If I had had a nickel for every time one of them interrupted my story about doing the long hole in four, I would have had four dollars and twenty cents.

“I can’t just leave her to settle with him,” he said. “It’d be against the natural order of things. It’s a matter of style. A woman like that belongs with a man who’s got money, looks, and all his hair. Good-looking people belong with good-looking people.”

“And Phil?”

“There’s no law against dogs mating if they can find another dog who’ll stand it,” he said offensively, and sauntered off.

By the end of the day, the odds had lengthened on Phil; cautious speculators were placing their bets on Reggie. Alarmed, I went in search of Natalie, and found her slipping out of the club Treasurer’s office. She greeted me with some reserve, anticipating my objections to her recent activities.

“My dear girl,” I said gravely. “Whatever are you playing at?”

“Playing at? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Reggie Direginald?”

“Oh, Reggie.” I regret to say that Natalie did not so much as blush. “You know how it is. He’s so manly. A girl can’t help but be swayed.”

“And what about Phil?”

She widened her lovely eyes at me. “What about Phil? I’m very fond of him.”

“He’s a talented golfer.”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully, “but is golf everything? There’s just something about Reggie. I feel sure that if a lion walked into the room right now, Reggie would be the first to put up his fists if it tried something. Phil would be more likely to convince it that a tea room wasn’t its proper _milieu_ , and give it pamphlets for the best cruises to the Serengeti.”

“I see nothing to object to in that. He’d be quite correct. A tea room isn’t the proper setting for a lion.”

She looked wistful. “Yes, but I do so like lions. Did you know the females do the hunting and are far more dangerous than the male? Imagine that.” And with that, she drifted away.

I would have preferred to oversee things at this delicate stage of Phil’s courtship, but unfortunately I was compelled to leave town just then for the city on business. Sadly, I was unable to warn Phil about Reggie before I left, though I comforted myself with the thought that Phil’s natural intelligence would recognize the danger. At the time, New York City was still in the process of rebuilding from some incident, and what with one thing and another, my stay ended up stretching out over several days. When I finally returned, it was late in the evening. I stopped by the club for a light dinner before returning to my little home, and found Phil in the restaurant, dining alone.

I joined him and inquired after our mutual acquaintances. He answered with perfect cheerfulness, and I was momentarily heartened with the thought that perhaps all had gone well in my absence. I had counted without my friend’s natural stoicism. Asking after Natalie, I learned that she was dining with Reggie that night; they had left early that afternoon for a tour of his winery, to be followed by a lavish dinner at _Chez Marzipane._

I dug further into the situation. To my dismay, I learned that for the past week, Natalie had been almost entirely in Reggie’s company. As far as I could determine, Phil’s role in their merry trio had been relegated to gopher, spectator, and occasional hatstand.

I clicked my tongue. “This won’t do. What have you been doing to romance her?”

He looked surprised. “Romance her? I don’t think she’d like that.”

“She’s a woman.”

“Yes,” he admitted doubtfully. “At least, that’s what it says on the box.”

“All women like to be romanced; even the best of them. Take her on a midnight cruise. Buy her flowers. Sing outside her window.”

“I can’t sing.”

“Hire a singer, then.”

“I don’t think the neighbors would like it.”

I said firmly, “The next time you see Natalie, you must stride up to her, seize her in your arms and kiss her.”

He stared at me. “Kiss her? Where?”

“Wherever you like. The location is irrelevant.”

“I usually meet her on the terrace. It’s really public.”

I suppressed the desire to shake him. “The traditional method is to kiss her on the lips.”

“You want me to stride up to her, seize her in my arms, and kiss her on the lips?” 

“And say, ‘my mate!’”

“But she isn’t my mate.”

“‘My woman!’ then.”

“She isn’t my woman, either.”

“She never will be, at this rate.”

“You think I should stride up to her, seize her in my arms, kiss her on the lips, and say, ‘my woman?’” he asked, as one determined to establish his facts.

“Yes.”

“You think she’d respond to that?”

“She couldn’t fail but respond to that.”

“Yes, I think so too.” He looked pensive. “The thing is, I like my arms.”

I failed to understand, and said so.

“I like them attached to my body,” he explained. “I’ve gotten used to them, and I think they fit me. I wouldn’t do half as well without them. My game would suffer.”

“Come come. Faint heart never won fair lady. For all his violent talk, Clint is a reasonable man. If Natalie prefers you—“

“Clint? What does Clint have to do with it?”

“He did threaten to punch you.”

Strangely, this seemed to please him. “He used his words. Good for him.” Phil rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I think I’ll pass, all the same. But all that stuff—the seizing her in my arms and kissing her—sounds like it might be interesting to watch. Maybe you should suggest it to Reggie.”

I was within an inch of washing my hands of the whole affair. I found Phil’s attitude confounding, hardly that of a hopeful lover. For the first time in my life, I felt that there was such a thing as taking stoicism too far.

 

 

 

For the next few days I observed from afar. It was with regret that I watched Natalie blew hot and cold on her suitors, one day blowing kisses at Reggie, the next hugging Phil’s arm affectionately. I did not blame her. Women will be women. Of greater concern to me was the effect this was having on the men. While it was hard to read Phil’s feelings, it was plan to all that Reggie was on the verge of committing violence against his rival. Clint, who seemed to be playing par with Reggie on the matter of antagonism, looked ready to follow through on his threat of black eyes. The betting in the club reached a feverish pitch, the odds shortening on both racers.

One afternoon, resting in the sitting room after an excellent lunch, I woke from a comfortable doze to find Reggie ruining the view. He was in the middle of his usual rant about Phil’s flaws, so I let my mind wander, and was wondering what would be for dinner when I suddenly realized that he had fallen silent and was waiting for a reply.

I started. “I beg your pardon. Could you repeat that?”

He looked cross. “I said, I need you to judge for the game Phil and I are playing tomorrow. Match play. The loser leaves the club for good, so I don’t want Phil to have any room to appeal to the committee after I beat him.”

I was surprised. While I can’t say I approved, I was pleased at the prospect of a club unpolluted by Reggie.

“Certainly I am available. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It reminds me of Ralph Bingham and Arthur Jukes, who—”

“Good. I’ll tell Phil,” he said, cutting me off rudely. I was annoyed, but remained civil. One must wear the mask. He said, “It’ll be a relief to get rid of him. You may have noticed that Nat looks happier lately.”

“Gnat?”

“That’s what I call her.”

I thought it surprising that a woman of Natalie’s character would allow a man of Reggie’s to call her after a small, stinging insect, but there’s no accounting for the female taste. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, she has.”

“If you say so.”

“We’ve been spending more time together.”

“But you just said she’s been looking happier,” I objected.

“She’s a good little thing,” he said tolerantly. “Adores me completely. I might marry her. She deserves it.”

I was doubtful. Quixotic in some ways she might be, but I couldn’t see how a woman of Natalie’s age could be so steeped in sin as to deserve marriage to Reggie. She couldn’t have had time. 

The day of the contest dawned bright with clear skies, only the lightest of breezes humming across the fairway. I was in fine fettle that morning, looking forward with cautious pleasure to a future unspoiled by Reggies. The man himself, who arrived in a confident mood, grew increasingly tiresome until Phil showed up some ten minutes after the scheduled tee time.

He apologized for his tardiness, excusing himself on the grounds that he had been briefly detained by some accident, and meekly endured Reggie’s bitter refusal to believe him. From being offensively self-confident, the mere sight of his rival seemed to have plunged Reggie into a state of nervous excitement. It was with difficulty that I persuaded him that the game should continue; there was nothing in the rules addressing Phil’s late arrival, and I refused to disqualify him on those grounds. Reggie sulkily roused his caddies—two specimens built along the lines of Fort Knox, supplied from Reggie’s private cellars—and took the honor.

I have judged numerous games throughout my career, but I must say that this one was one of the most peculiar ones I ever witnessed. All was well on the first two holes. Phil was in fine form, and took them easily; his swing was free and relaxed, his followthrough excellent; his way with the 3-iron the sort of thing susceptible women swoon over. To look at him, one would think he hadn’t a care in the world. By comparison, Reggie was badly rattled. He topped his first two balls badly, and sent his third straight into the sand. A nasty slice on the second hole put him too far behind to catch up. By the time he holed out, his face had taken on the vivid color of a boiled beet.

It’s on the third hole that the game started to develop pear-shaped qualities. The third hole was the first one out of sight of the clubhouse, consisting of a long stretch of hilly rough hiding a sandpit, and bookended on both side by trees. Phil considered the layout in his usual phlegmatic fashion.

“I’d better use a 5-iron,” he decided, reaching for his clubs.

“Is that Clint?” I thought I had seen that jealous young man slipping into the woods.

“I didn’t see anything. My honor, I think.”

While Phil’s previous strokes had flown straight as an arrow, this time he ended up slicing badly. He dodged the rough, only to watch his ball disappear into the woods.

“Playing two?” I suggested. 

Phil shook his head. “I’m fond of that ball. We’ve been through hard times together. I’ll go see if I can play it where it lies.”

“Bob will go with you and help,” Reggie announced, perking up. Hearing his name, one of the cabbies stopped excavating his nose with a finger to trudge obediently after Phil.

It was uncharacteristically generous of Reggie, in the best spirit of that fine golf fellowship. I almost warmed to him. 

Reggie’s ball landed in the sand, a nasty spot, but he considered it worth his while to attempt it. His mood had improved considerably once Phil was out of sight; I decided that he belonged to that class of golfers who tended to disintegrate when observed by the competition. There was certainly nothing hesitant about his attack on the ball; he sent it flying out of the pit on the second try, along with a good chunk of Long Island.

He was congratulating himself at unnecessary length when I noticed that Phil returned, unaccompanied by caddie. To my astonishment, he looked as though he’d been rolling about in the shrubbery. His knuckles were raw and he had a long slice across his cheek, which was bleeding. 

He explained with some embarrassment that he had fallen while looking for his ball. 

“I think I put my foot in a gopher hole.”

“The maintenance of these grounds is shocking,” I said severely, while he dabbed self-consciously at his cheek with a tissue. “I will have to speak to the committee about it. Do you need to return to the clubhouse?”

“No. It’s just a cut. I’ll have to play a new ball, though. The woods are a little crowded at present. Bob had to leave,” he added to Reggie. “He thought he might have left his oven on. It was bothering him.”

I happened to be looking at Reggie at the time, and I noticed that he was looking a little pale. Some people do come over queasy at the sight of blood. 

Despite the small setback, Phil won the hole, Reggie having transformed into a barely sentient jelly. I thought that if the standards of play were going to continue along these lines, we might as well skip the last six holes, but on the fourth hole, Reggie finally dug deep and pulled himself together. The fourth hole was halved. Reggie took the fifth and the sixth. A ding-dong battle took place over the seventh, with the end of it being Phil getting an eagle and the hole. 

I describe the game in plain, even austere terms, but if ever I saw a game more plagued by bad luck. On the fifth hole, which was placed near a road with only some woods to block the sound of traffic, a passing car backfired repeatedly, just as Phil was teeing off. A few seconds later, his driver inexplicably snapped in half. On the sixth hole, I was hit in the small of the back by a stray ball, which knocked me headlong down a hill. I apparently brought Phil down with me, for when the world stopped turning end over end, I discovered him lying half over me with his club in pieces around him. 

We lost Reggie’s other caddie on the eighth hole. While I did not witness the accident—Phil had pointed out that my shoes were untied, and so I lagged behind while the others continued on over the hill—but I gathered from Phil’s explanation later that the caddie tripped on a rock and fell right onto an arrow that some inconsiderate mollusk had left lying about on the greens. Not feeling that he milked enough drama from the situation, he then went on to break his arm, a leg, and several ribs. Given the tact of your average caddie, I was surprised the injuries were not more numerous. 

The game was briefly postponed while the victim was conveyed back to the clubhouse, Reggie raging at Phil for some incomprehensible lack of consideration the entire time. The sudden burst of fury seemed to do Reggie good, however; when we returned to the hole, he chipped out of a difficult lay and managed to get it to the green, with an easy putt giving him the hole.

All in all, by the ninth hole, the strain was starting to tell on us. Even Phil was showing signs of it; his stride was not so confident as it was, taking on signs of a definite limp. We were making our way to the teeing ground when one of the club’s caddies came wandering up to deliver a note to Reggie. He scowled as he read it.

“Bad news?” I asked. 

He crumpled up the paper. “Hippo was going to come by and watch us play. Something came up.”

The name rung a bell in my memory. “Ah,” I said wisely. “The car.”

“The car?”

“The car that hit him.”

Reggie paled. “What car? When?”

“This morning. The club staff were gossiping about it when I arrived. He was taken away by an ambulance after he was struck by a car in the library.”

"I told you there was an accident," Phil said with quiet satisfaction at finding his story borne out.

Reggie spluttered. “What car in the library? There’s no car in the library.”

“That’s just what I said,” I said.

“And?”

“And they said it must have been a car that hit him, because the closest train that could’ve done it was at least three miles away.”

“Two and a half as the crow files,” Phil said helpfully. “Here comes another one.”

Another caddie had indeed strolled up. This time he gave his slip of paper to Phil, who opened it and raised his eyebrows.

“More bad news?” I asked.

“Odd news. It says ‘Belgium compromised, Lassiter burned.’"

"Strange."

"Very strange."

"It doesn't mean anything to you?"

"Not to me. It must be business code of some kind. I suppose it was misdelivered.”

He crumpled the paper and was about to thrust it in his pocket when Reggie pounced on him. He wrestled the paper out of Phil’s hand and read it feverishly. 

Phil watched him with mild surprise. I snorted. Really, Reggie was getting more and more unhinged with every hour. 

“Your honor, I think?” Phil said.

Reggie shoved the paper in his pocket and set up at the tee. I could see as he addressed the ball that he was in poor form. At the very top of his swing, another interruption came in a view halloo from yet a third cabbie. We were being plagued by caddies; they were swarming like mosquitos spying a banker in short pants. 

This one thrust a piece of paper at us, indiscriminate about the recipient. As the closest, I reached it before Reggie could.

I read, “‘Jude missing, Forson terminated, Strucker gone to ground, SHIELD—‘”

Before I could finish, Reggie snatched the paper away from me. He read it silently, his face turning white until he resembled nothing so much as an almond pudding. I watched him with concern. I’d seen many a golfer fall all to pieces at the first sign of trouble, but rarely had I seen such a faithful imitation of a dog shown a bath. Then again, he always took things beyond the extremes of good taste.

“A problem?” I asked. There was one more hole to go before we were back at the clubhouse, and I was eager for some light refreshment before we started on the second nine.

Reggie looked up at me with bulging eyes. “Some messages from the office,” he gabbled, sweat standing on his brow. “I’ll have to go and make a call. Be right back. Just a call. Two ticks. Wait for me. Back. I’ll be—“

He dashed off.

Phil, idly practicing chip shots, looked up just long enough to watch him go. I was annoyed to realize that Reggie had somehow managed to miss his way. Despite the clubhouse being clearly visible from where we stood, he had set off in quite the opposite direction.

Thinking longingly of a small whisky and soda, I said with asperity, “There’s nothing that way but the eleventh hole and the road.”

Phil flicked his club with a thoughtful hum. He was watching a figure sauntering towards us from the nearby trees. At first I thought it was another caddie; then I realized it was Clint, dressed in one of the most outlandish costumes I’ve ever seen on the links. American fashions are quite beyond me, but even in Long Island, purple and black sleeveless leather suits were hardly _de rigueur_. I decided charitably that he must have been playing tennis. I put nothing past tennis players. 

Phil seemed unsurprised at Clint’s appearance on the scene. I was pleased to realize that Clint himself was regarding Phil in a kindlier light than he had in the past. The nod they exchanged was practically cordial.

“So, golf?” Clint asked by way of greeting.

I admitted that we were, indeed, playing golf.

Clint eyed the ball with curiosity. “How’s that go, exactly?”

Phil said in a friendly way, “I hit the ball with the stick. It goes in a hole. I go for a walk and then do it again.” 

“Seems like a waste of time to me.”

I had been prepared for some sentiment of the sort; I would not easily forget the shock of our earlier conversation. Phil, who was unprepared, frowned. His was a strong spirit, but it was not invulnerable to the rude shafts of the unappreciative. Without a further word, he teed up, plucked a new club out of his bag, and addressed the ball. I could see at once that he would send it in quite the wrong direction, and was just about to advise him of his error when he swung. He smote it like Enkidu decapitating Humbaba. Nearby trees uncovered and bowed their heads.

“Good shot!” I exclaimed involuntarily. It was a thing of beauty. Low, fast, straight as an arrow, it flew a good 250 yards towards the eleventh hole fairway. If he’d been aiming it at the eighth hole, he would’ve landed on the green in one. Unfortunately, since it was heading in quite a different direction, it landed with arguably less happy consequences. Reggie was already a small figure in the distance, but now he threw up his arms and fell down. I watched him. He didn’t move.

Phil, who’d kept his eye on the ball like a model plate out of ‘Learn to Play Golf in 30 Days,’ lowered his club. “Look at that.”

“You hit Reggie,” Clint pointed out.

“He got in the way.”

“Bet that hurt.”

"I forgot to say 'fore,'" Phil said regretfully.

"What does that do?"

“It warns those in the path of a ball to look lively,” I explained.

“What’s the point of that?”

“It allows them to avoid the ball.”

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly good ball."

Men in dark suits were already hurrying across the grounds towards the prostrate figure, attracted by the accident. I recognized them as out-of-towners from the city; we often have such businessmen visiting our links for a game or two before returning to the metropolis. 

Phil and Clint watched with interest. Neither of them seemed particularly concerned. I approved. There are occasions when agitation is acceptable, even expected on a golf course: a foozled putt, or a bad patch of rough, or a topped ball. Accidentally sloshing Reggie Direginald on the head did not, I felt, qualify as such an occasion. In any case, there was no need for excitement. The kindly out-of-towners had already picked Reggie up and started conveying him towards the clubhouse. 

Phil looked pensive. “We’ll have to postpone the rest of the game,” he said.

“I’ll have to disqualify him if he doesn’t return,” I said.

“I hit him rather hard.”

“Pretty sure I heard him say he was going on a trip,” Clint volunteered. “Soon.”

“Practically immediately,” agreed Phil.

“To someplace solitary and private. Ocean view.”

“Cuba.”

“He had some real estate waiting for him there.”

“Six by eight.”

“I don’t think he’ll be playing much golf in the future,” Clint finished. “Might as well write him off.”

“I like Cuba.” Phil shouldered his bag. “I should go see if Natalie is finished. I promised to tell her all about the game.”

He exchanged another quasi-cordial glance with Clint, nodded in a friendly way to me, and strode off towards the clubhouse.

“It’s good to see him happy,” I told Clint indulgently, following at a more sedate pace. Not for me the light-footed gazelle impression that characterizes these young lovers. “Perhaps now he’ll be able to put this business of his musician behind him.”

“Musician?”

“It’s always sad to see a good man’s love go unrequited.”

Clint frowned at me. “What love? You mean Mrs. Rushland?”

“Phil’s violist or cellist, Miss Barton. He mentioned her skill with a bow, but didn’t specify which instrument. Fortunately, Natalie is nothing like her. Of course, her eyes are also green, but her hair is red rather than blond. I should have inquired if Natalie played an instrument.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me. When I looked, I discovered that Clint had stopped dead in his tracks. I became alarmed. Thirty-five years ago, an unwary golfer had been bitten by a snake while going ‘round the fourth hole. The incident was still discussed with hushed voices around the luncheon tables of the clubhouse.

Before I could ascertain whether Clint was frozen in rigor mortis, he spoke hoarsely. “Did you meet her?”

“Who? Natalie?”

“No, the cellist.”

“Or violinist,” I reminded. “Or, now that I consider the matter, possibly a violist or a double bassist.”

He made an impatient gesture. “Whatever it is!” he cried. 

“It’s hardly _whatever_ ,” I reproached him, for I dislike sloppy approaches, whether it be to golf or the string family. Clint gave me an anguished look. I relented. “I have not met her. I owe my knowledge of her entirely to Phil’s description.”

“And he said he loved her?”

“For years, I understand. His first thought was of her in the morning, and his last thought was of her at night. But he couldn’t act because of the trust she placed in him. Her friendship was too valuable to lose.”

“Her friendship was—“ Clint threw up his hands and stomped in a circle, considerably agitated. I regarded him with alarm. “Unrequited, my ass. A cellist!”

“The cello is a noble instrument,” I said with austerity. “I cannot understand how it is that young people, who are of sound mind and body, willingly abuse their ears with the most—“

I broke off, for Clint wasn’t listening. He was looking around himself as though seeing the links with new eyes. I have, in my long life, occasionally been privileged to witness this moment of epiphany, when a man who has hitherto traveled the roads of life without a soul breathes in a great lungful of air and resolves to become a better man. I could read him like a book. What have I been? he was thinking. A non-golfer. A mere fraction of a man. No more! Behind him, the fields of Abaddon. Before him, a future of slices, bunkers, divots, dubs, flubs, and whiffs. 

There is no predicting when it will happen. For some, it comes just after their first good drive. For others, it comes after their first hole. For Clint Tierce, it came halfway between the ninth hole green and the clubhouse. 

He moved on in a dazed way. I strolled along with him, maintaining an easy flow of conversation. I did not mind his silence. When it comes to the feast of reason and the flow of the soul, Clint was a vegetarian on a diet of lentils and soapy water.

“Hullo!” I interrupted myself to say. “What’s this?” We were nearly to the terrace, and there were a number of people in dark suits and sunglasses polluting the grounds. “More out-of-towners?”

“Insurance assessors,” Clint said absent-mindedly. “Probably here for the fire.”

“What fire?”

“The one that just started at Reggie’s house.”

“Ah,” I said, satisfied by this explanation. “That must be what’s causing the smoke.” 

Clint’s mind, though, was on other things. “So, this golf thing.”

“Yes?”

“Phil’s good at it?”

“He is.”

“Really good?” 

“One of the best at the club.”

Clint halted again. He regarded me with the anxious yearning of a puppy spying the last bone. 

“Do you think I should ask him if he’d teach me?” 

There was only one possible answer to that. 

“My dear boy,” I said warmly, “you could do nothing better.”

 

 

 

Little more remains to be told (said the Oldest Member). By the time we returned to the clubhouse, Reggie was gone; driven to the hospital by some of the helpful insurance assessors, we were told. He left on his trip shortly afterwards, and due to one thing and another, I never saw him again. His loss was not felt by the community.

Of more interest to me was the growing friendship between Phil and Clint. 

While I was not there for the passing of the peace pipe between them, I was a happy witness to the outcome. Phil was not one to turn away an olive branch, or an opportunity to initiate a fresh, untouched soul to the wonders of golf. He took on the responsibility of Clint’s education with that fine spirit of generosity so characteristic of him. I often saw them wandering the links together, master and pupil dealing together in perfect harmony. All memory of their past hostility was forgotten. Clint deferred to him with a respect that was a delight to see, and in return, Phil dedicated himself to Clint’s initiation into the holy fraternity of golf, animated with the passion of a teacher who has found a worthy student. 

On one occasion, I encountered Phil on the terrace, looking like he’d been rolling about in the grass. I plucked a twig out of his hair and returned it to him.

“Clint likes to practice dealing with obstacles,” he explained, embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to teach him how to get out of a tricky lie.”

“I like Phil’s way with my wood,” Clint volunteered, popping up out of nowhere, as was his habit.

“With the woods,” Phil corrected.

“Sorry. I’m not good with the lingo yet. ‘Choke down’ has to do with how I handle the shaft, right?”

“He’s better with the putter,” Phil told me apologetically. 

“Has he taught you how to do a bump and run yet?” I asked Clint.

His eyes opened wide. He turned to Phil, rapt.

“Not another word,” Phil ordered. 

“But, sir—“

As I say, a charming relationship. 

I can see you are wondering about Natalie. Where, you are thinking, is the romantic swell of music? What has happened to the final scene, when boy kisses girl and all is right with the world? I regret to say that this time, there were no wedding bells for our hero. Natalie’s business ended before Phil could work up the nerve to pitch the question to her, and she left for greener pastures.

I encountered Natalie several months later in Monte Carlo. She greeted me with delight, and told me that she still kept in touch with Phil and Clint. They were both well.

“Practically inseparable,” she said.

“I’m sorry that you never came to an arrangement with Phil,” I told her. “I thought you dealt rather well together.”

“I think some people aren’t meant for that kind of attachment.”

“That may be. There are some men who’ve been bitten so badly by the golf bug, there isn’t room for a woman in their lives.”

She seemed amused. “It’s true. I don’t think any woman could come between Phil and his true love.”

“As long as he’s happy.”

“Do you know,” she said, “I really think he is.”

And so you see the healing powers of golf. I do not say (said the Oldest Member) that it will invariably produce as harmonious an end to every rivalry, but you must give it time. Let it work its healing magic. Men who hate each other go through wars fighting side by side and emerge as brothers, inseparable; and that with just a shared experience of a few piddling bullets and bombs. How much greater must the bonds of brotherhood be when they go through true hardship together: a failed chip shot; a club to the funny bone; a foozled putt that would have given you an eagle on the long eleventh? In the all-embracing love of golf, any miracle can happen, if you are only patient and let it have its way. 

 

 

 

“Oh, alright,” said the young man moodily. “But I still say you could do wonders with a 2-iron.”

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, Wodehouse is the less trafficked part of the fandom world, with the Oldest Member being one of the least of the less trafficked characters. This is sad because The Oldest Member is _awesome_. Let me link you therefore to [The Clicking of Cuthbert](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7028) via Project Gutenberg, wherein The Oldest Member dispenses his wisdom and witnesses firsthand the looniness of young people in love.
> 
> You may notice there are some scenes and turns of phrase in the Golf stories that are clumsily reflected in this story. That is precisely as it should be. As in all things, when it comes to paying the sincerest form of flattery, imitation is, with me, the work of a moment. 
> 
> So to speak.


End file.
